


tumblr terror ficlets collection ♡

by caravaggiosbrushes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Captains in love, Cock Warming, D/s kind of, Domestic Bliss, Dubious Consent, Edward POV, Francis POV, Gay, Idiots in Love, James POV, James drawing Francis, M/M, Phone Sex, Post-Canon, Sexting, Slash, Smut, Tenderness, Tumblr Prompt, Victorian Attitudes, tinder au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 14,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24996286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravaggiosbrushes/pseuds/caravaggiosbrushes
Summary: a collection of all the fanfics I got prompt for ontumblr(bless)fitzier, joplittle and fitzconte, for now.Enjoy! ♡
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 32
Kudos: 72





	1. "You don't have anything to be sorry for." - fitzier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @[burningfreeze](https://burningfreeze.tumblr.com) asked for these two prompts: **35:** _"You don't have anything to be sorry for."_ and **46:** _"Please don't say that about yourself. Please don't believe that. You're so much more than that. You're so…"_[f](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/622242446851620864/prompt-list-5)[rom this list](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/622242446851620864/prompt-list-5). 
> 
> **tags for this:** fix-it, PTSD, mutual comfort, hand holding (because there's never enough of that), James' POV.

The party has long become a blur of too warm lights, too bright colored skirts and crinolines, and too many amber drinks in glimmering crystal glasses, by now. 

It’s not the first party or public gathering they attend since coming back, but James is still disoriented by the fact that this is people’s daily life. That this was _his_ daily life too, until a few years ago. A lifetime ago.

Most of all, he is shocked by the loudness of it all: the combination of alcohol and constant chattering and _clinck-clinck_ of crystals and fine china plates and the scraping of chairs on wooden floor and the talking, the talking, the talking. Everyone seems to have every kind of things of greatest importance to discuss with him and Francis and James can’t blame them -he knows they are quite the curiosity of the entire city, possibly the entire Country, right now,- but nevertheless he still finds himself wishing he and Francis could leave, unnoticed, and just go home. God, he is dreaming of the silence of their home right now: its quietness, its soft lights, their two bedrooms that most nights are simply _their_ bedroom and the room that holds James’ clothes and belongings. He dreams of that, right now, of being held by a pair of strong arms in the comfort of their bed which was Francis’ bed and still is, for their housemaid, but for the remaining of the time is _their_ bed and that simple thought brings so much blinding joy in James’ chest.

Thinking about this, he realizes that Francis has left his side for quite a while now. He has left some time ago, politely making his excuses and smiling at everyone in their little circle, but wasn’t explicit about why he wanted to step away or where he was heading to. James hasn’t followed him, nor asked anything, even if the moment Francis has stepped out of his line of vision James felt unbalanced, as if someone has cut off one of his limbs.

Now, a quick look around the room is unsuccessful, Francis is nowhere to be seen, so James takes advantage of that and uses it as an excuse to go looking for him and stepping away from all the chattering and talking, at least for a little while. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I think I’ll go searching for something as dangerous as the Passage itself.” All eyes are on him in an instant and James offers them his most convincing smile, “That would be Sir Francis, of course.”

Everyone laughs, delighted at his joke and assures him that is alright and please come back with him soon, we would absolutely _love_ to hear more of your stories! 

With a final smile, James is finally free to leave and wander around for a while.

It’s only after a couple of strolls around the room, completely unfruitful, that he starts feeling a bit anxious and then, of course, ridiculous because of that. They’re not- _there_ anymore. There are no dangers here. Francis is alright. He is alright. 

Still, James feels the collar of his uniform cutting at his throat like a rope, feeling hard to get his breathing under control. It’s only when he steps out of the _salon_ , in search of a bit of fresher air that will hopefully have a calming effect, that he notices him.

Francis is standing with his back to him, apparently staring at one of the larger paintings hanging in the hallway. The relief upon seeing him again is more powerful than anything else and James couldn’t, for the life of him, tell what the subject of that painting is. Everything is blurred, except for Francis.

He closes the distance between them with much too controlled steps (he would run to him like an insubordinate child, if only this were a dream).

“Captain Crozier,” He calls for him, voice almost reverberating in the empty hallway, “Here you are, man. I thought you had fled the scene already.” _without me_ , is what he can’t add.

As soon as James gets a look at his face, however, he realizes it was the wrong thing to say. Francis doesn’t mirrors his -calculated, but still- easy tone of voice, quite the contrary: an expression of deep concern and stress is painted on his face, deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth. James would like to smooth them all away with light touches and even lighter kisses. 

He can’t do that. He doesn’t move.

Francis finally meets his gaze and visibly steels himself, taking a breath, avoiding his eyes once again.

“I’m sorry, James. It wasn’t my intention to leave like that.” He rubs at the spot in between his eyebrows with a nervous touch, “But I couldn’t take it any longer.”

James feels puzzled and his face must show it. “Take what?”

Francis meets his gaze and looks so, so tired, so much that James wishes he could hide him somewhere under his coat and says his goodbyes and just leave, finally leave and take him home.

He can’t do that. He doesn’t move.

“Well,” his posture is perfect, but the tiredness weights visibly upon his shoulders. He looks presentable, yes, but he doesn’t look the best version of Francis Crozier that James is so well acquainted to. “Being asked questions they don’t really want an answer to.” Francis keeps his voice low, barely audible, “Listening to all those empty chatters- I couldn’t bear it before, but at least back then I had alcohol to distract myself. Now I’m defenceless against these-” He shakes his head and shuts his mouth. “My apologies. Pay no mind to this, is just me doing what I do best: brooding and being of no entertainment.” 

His weak attempt at relieving the tension fools neither of them.

James wishes he could take a step towards him, place his hands on Francis’ shoulders, take his face in his hands and say exactly what he wants to say.

He can’t do that. He doesn’t move.

“Francis, you have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“Oh, I’d say I do, James.” He gives a short laugh, all bitterness, “Quite a handful of things, actually. I can even tell you the exact number of things I am sorry about, if you want-”

“Don’t do this.” He stops him, before he can lose himself in those thoughts.

“I try not to, you know that.” Francis nods, “but,” what follows is almost spit out, Francis’ face morphing into an expression of anger, disbelief and deep, profound sorrow: “Everyone keeps- _complimenting me_ , James.”

James nods and then nods again, because he knows. He knows what Francis means: it’s exactly why he doesn’t like social gatherings anymore, it’s the reason why they both avoid them now, as often as it is socially acceptable. It’s why sometimes James still wakes up at night covered in cold sweat, his mind replaying in an endless loop his every mistake, forcing him to live it again and again.

“Pay them no mind. It’s painful, I know it is.” He tries his hardest to put everything he really means in these words, “They don’t mean bad, they simply have no idea of what you’ve faced.”

Francis holds is gaze and ah, if only James could step closer and place a kiss, just one single kiss would be enough, on his furrowed brow, that would be enough. It would smoother the tension that holds Francis’ face and body as taut as a violin’s string. Jamous would whisper sweet nothings directly on his skin and kiss him and simply keep him close, waiting patiently for those thoughts and memories to leave him.

But everything James can do here is taking one step towards him, and look at him, pouring every thought and gentle touch in his gaze, hoping Francis would be able to translate them and understand them.

Maybe he does, because his eyes widen just a fraction, in disbelief (that’s so very Francis).

“And you, too.” He says, “You lived what I lived and you can still do- this,” he gestures at the open door of the _salon_ , far away on the other end of the hallway, “But I can’t, because of course I can’t. I’m broken, I can’t even go to _fucking parties._ ” He shakes his head quickly, out of pure nervousness, arms straight at his sides. James’ hand burns with the need to touch him.

“Captain Crozier,” He says, as firmly as he can, and keeps talking only when Francis is looking at him, focused, “You know how much I respect you,” _how much I hold you close to my heart, how deeply I feel towards you, how much light your eyes bring into my days,_ “But sometimes you’re the most infuriating of men.”

Francis stands there, stock still, expression just a little bit confused and it would be almost comical if it weren’t this important of a matter. 

“Do you know why I stepped out of that room?” James doesn’t leave him time to answer: “Because I was suffocating. Because I couldn’t hear my own thoughts anymore with all that talking and those noises and because my mind kept wandering” _towards you, my personal North Star_ , “Do not think that you’re the only one who finds this hard. I know you do and that’s understandable,” James takes another step closer, decency be damned: he has to make him understand, “And I wish you wouldn’t have to feel this way, because it pains me immensely to see you troubled. And I know I can do very little about it-”

“False.” This time it’s Francis the one who interrupts. He hasn’t taken a step back. He’s holding James’ gaze, his eyes almost flaming when he goes on: “False. You can do so much- James, you’re the only thing that makes it bearable-” the sound of footsteps stops him and they both take a step back, quietly. They know how to do it.

A couple who James cannot bring himself to be interest in, walks by and they exchange a polite greeting. He hopes they won’t take notice of his too rapid breathing.

Francis clears his voice and James busies himself by finishing his whiskey, slowlier than what he would normally do.

They step closer to each other once again at the same time, as soon as that couple is out of sight. Francis places a hand on his free one and holds it gently, but surely, “You’re the only thing, James.”

He almost doesn’t let him finish before saying: “And you, as well, to me.” Turning his hand just so in Francis’, to brush his thumb on the side of his palm, “You know that. I just… I wish you could see yourself as I do.”

His gaze becomes softer at that. “I’m just a mess of a man-”

“ _Francis_.” James almost snaps, “Do you know how long I’ve been-” _enamoured. obsessed. in love._ “Admiring you?”

He frowns, probably surprised by the question. “I… couldn’t say.”

James makes sure to look straight in his eyes, “Since I read about yours and Ross’ expedition.” He delights in Francis confused, even more surprised and a little bit shocked expression, “That’s right. Even before we were formally introduced.” Francis looks like he wants to say something, but James has a point to prove and doesn’t stop, “I read about the two of you doing incredible things and you especially- you embodied everything I dreamed to be. Still do. A great man, brave and adventurous, a responsible captain who takes all the best decisions and God, I was so envious of you.” He laughs shortly, thinking about his younger self.

Francis looks genuinely affected by his confession and his voice is almost a whisper, “You never told me this.”

“I never told anyone.” He shrugs, holding his gaze, “What I’m saying is that what happened doesn’t make you a bad Captain. And God, it doesn’t make you a bad man, Francis. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

Francis looks speechless, lips slightly parted, blue eyes shimmering.

“I,” His voice shakes a little. He takes a breath and smiles with such fondness that James’ heart swells underneath it. “I think it’s time for us to go home.”

He wouldn’t ask for anything else.

“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- posted [on tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/622292585912958976/from-the-fic-prompt-list-fitzier-in-either-35-or).  
> \- [my inbox](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com) is always open for more prompts, feel free to drop them!


	2. “God, you are so fucking cute.” - fitzier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [hmshistorian](https://hmshistorian.tumblr.com/) asked for fitzier + prompt **n.19** : _“God, you are so fucking cute.”,_ from [this list](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/622242446851620864/prompt-list-5).
> 
>  **tags:** fix-it, lots of kisses, domestic bliss, everything is okay and nothing hurts, Francis' POV.

Afternoons like this are possibly one of Francis’ favourite things he’s ever had the luck to experience in this life.

After having been through Hell and back, having felt on his skin what it means to be on the verge of losing everything, (and even worse: being forced to watch everything deteriorating and disappearing in front of his eyes, unable to stop it) after having felt what he thought was James’ last breath, on his own cheek- well, after all that suffering, _this_ is was Heaven looks like to Francis: the soft light of London’s mid-afternoon, filtering smoothly through the windows of their - _their_ \- sitting room, falling gently on James’ sleeping form, curled up on the sofa; a perfect aura of quietness seems to have fallen on the entire house, and they have left the sitting room’s door open, since it’s the housemaid’s free day of the week: there is no one else here, just the two of them. The world is this: Francis, sat comfortably on their - _their_ \- velvety couch, one of his hands supporting his head, elbow resting on the back of the sofa, the other one on James. James, with his head in Francis’ lap and his entire body relaxed: his eyes are closed, but he’s not frowning nor suffering, he’s simply sleeping. There is no danger to face, here: the only thing James can succumb to, here, in their - _their_ \- home, is sleep (and if Francis sometimes checks on him in the middle of the night, if Francis sometimes stays very very still next to his sleeping -not dead, just sleeping, what an enormous blessing,- body, to listen and pick up his breathing, well if Francis does all this, he cannot be blamed. Not after having watched James almost _go_ ).

He threads his fingers through his once again long and soft hair, gently, slowly. He doesn’t want to wake him, just cuddles him, lets him feel his presence, to make sure James knows he’s real, _they both_ are real.

“I can hear you thinking, even from down here.” James’ voice comes deep, a bit rough and full of sleep and sweetness and everything Francis has ever dreamed of. “And I haven’t even open my eyes yet.”

Francis can feel his own lips curling in a gentle smile. He doesn’t stop his fingers in James’ hair. He wishes he could never stop. “That’s because you’re a very perceptive and smart man.”

At this, James opens his eyes, blinks a couple of times, fighting against the sunlight (and what a wonder, what a joy, that _this_ is the hardest battle he has to face now, Francis could kiss every single sunray from his cheeks and from his nose. He will, he will).

James blinks once again and turns over on his back, his head still in Francis’ lap, and smiles softly, studying his face. “Not because you’re thinking too loudly?”

“Mh, could be even that.” He concedes, “But I assure you, they were good thoughts.”

“You promise?”

“Mh-mh.” He nods, holding his gaze, meaning it. James smiles. He got it.

He always gets it.

Then James turns his head a bit on the side and captures Francis’ hand in his own, brings it closer to his face and place the sweetest of kisses on its palm. His lips are slightly chapped, but not from the cold, not from the wind, not from the scurvy, just because of his nap, because he hasn’t talked and licked his lips in that short time. There is no more danger to face. Just this, just the quiet, and the light, and James’ warm body against his.

“You’re still thinking a awful lot.” James says, reading him as plainly as if Francis has all his thoughts written on his skin. Maybe he has, and maybe James is the only person who can see and read his own private language, the one even he himself hasn’t learned how to read yet. 

“Give me a hint at least, perhaps I can guess what’s going on in that head of yours.” James kisses his palm once more, looking at him, waiting for an answer. He doesn’t let go of his hand, but brings it on chest.

 _Tumb - tumb - tumb - tumb_ , the most joyful of symphonies. Francis strokes his thumb lightly over his shirt, over his chest, over his heart.

“It’s nothing important, and nothing enthusiastic either.” He then goes for a more dramatic voice, “Being the old man that I am, I was contemplating the joys and lucks of this,” he makes a general gesture towards the room, “I was thinking about the past, but just as a comparison to appreciate this, even more. That’s it.”

James gives him a tiny nod, gaze light and serene, clear of every worry. 

“In that case, I’m glad you were reminiscing of-” He starts to say, but gets interrupted by a yawn, “-My apologies. I must be half asleep still. And this pillow is very comfortable.” He buries his face in Francis’ clothed thigh, smiling so softly it almost hurts Francis. He’s not sure he has the space required to store everything he feels for this man, inside himself. 

Where does one put his immeasurable love, when one’s already _this_ much happy and content?

He mirrors James’ smile. “Is it, now?”

And James just buries his face against him, in answer. A lock of dark curls falls in front of his only still visible eye and Francis grants himself a moment to admire it, this beautiful, relaxed version of James, before pushing it back, using it as an excuse to touch his hair again. Then James lifts a hand to his face and rubs at that eye, to push away the sleepiness. He stretches his muscles lightly, his long limbs occupy the entire sofa and more, while he keeps rubbing at his eye.

Francis has never seen anything lovelier.

“Good God, you’re so fucking cute sometimes.” He says, almost reverently, then bows down, folding himself in half to kiss him because he _has_ to show him and he has to do something for all this love that has filled him to the brim and it’s now spilling over and it cannot, should not, by any means, be wasted, he wants it to spill only on James, on his beautiful sleepy eyelids -so Francis kisses them,- and on his slightly chapped but still soft lips -so he kisses them,- and on his warm, rosy cheeks -so he kisses them and kisses them and kisses them, until James is laughing, his entire body shaking with delight when he says, “What’s gotten into you, man? I’m not so sure you’re alright anymore,” but does nothing to push him away, instead he kisses him back while still laughing.

When he regains his breath and they separate from one another, James pushes his hair back from his eyes and repeats, “Cute,” arching an eyebrow, smiling amusedly, cheeks bright pink, “I’m a grown up man, Francis. I’m not _cute_.”

“But you are.” He assures him immediately, “Although you’re a lot of other things too: a disaster to be around when you can’t find the right waistcoat for the day, or-”

“That’s-!” His eyes widen in exaggerated outrage and he punches Francis lightly on his chest, “Not true, you terrible man. It has happened maybe once-”

“Eleven times this month.” Francis delights in the blush coming up darker on the apples of his cheeks, “I kept track.”

“You did not.” James says, but doesn’t look so sure anymore. He’s almost pouting.

And he has the nerve to say he’s not cute.

“I did not.” Francis confesses, not wishing to cause him any real discomfort, “I just love seeing you worked up like this. You’re delightful.”

James sits up, next to him, leaving no space between them. He brings his arms around Francis’ neck and says, “You’re a terrible man,” before kissing him, and then keeps whispering, “A terrible, terrible man,” while he kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- posted [on tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/622258649602097152/hiii-for-the-fic-prompts-how-about-fitzier-and).  
> \- [my inbox](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com) is always open for more prompts, feel free to drop them!


	3. 3 sentences fitzier, pillow talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written for [this prompt](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/619841978711015424/this-looks-fun): "1.) Give me a pairing. 2.) Give me a prompt. 3.) I will write you a three-sentence fic" and @[owlboxes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlboxes/pseuds/owlboxes) asked for "Fitzier, pillow talk? :)"

Francis nuzzles his face against the nape of his neck, an arm thrown across him to tug him closer, “Are you comfortable, James?”

He feels himself tensing up, unable to avoid it, “You asked me that already, once.”

Francis makes a questioning sound and James- James can feel it vibrating through his own body, can feel the reassuring weight of Francis’ solid chest pressed against his back and the warmth of his legs tangled with his own, and he can feel his hand, his only hand, cradled in between both of his, and all three resting over his heart where Francis always likes to place it, and so James let his eyes close, breathes in the familiar scent of the clean linen of their bed and says: “It doesn’t matter anymore, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- posted [on tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/619847523236020224/fitzier-pillow-talk)  
> -[my inbox](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com) is always open for more prompts, feel free to drop them!


	4. "Don't look at me like that." - joplittle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my first ever joplittle! it was fun to write, hopefully it's fine to read too :} *points at them* they cute
> 
> anon asked for prompt n. **99** ( _"Don't look at me like that."_ ) from [this list](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/622904878424014848/drabble-request-help).
> 
> **tags:** pre-slash; mutual pining; Jopson has beautiful beautiful eyes; a lot of not so descreet gazing at eachother; Edward's POV.

Once in a while, when Luck kisses him right in the centre of his forehead, _HMS_ _Terror_ ’s Lieutenant Edward Little gets to experience something he values more than any golden treasure: being alone with _HMS_ _Terror_ ’s steward Thomas Jopson.

Sometimes it happens in _Terror’_ s great cabin, for just a mere few seconds, -after everyone else has already left and Edward has made sure to adjust his coat and hat very slowly so that he can steal one last glance at Jopson, before leaving all that beauty behind to venture into the freezing unknown,- but on some other memorable occasions they happened to be in the same room for more than just a couple of breaths, and well, that’s everything he hopes for and has been hoping for, every day for the greatest part of the past two years.

This morning, Fate and Luck both must have granted him with a kiss on each cheek, because he seems to keep crossing paths with Jopson whenever he goes: starting from that morning, when he caught a quick glimpse of him leaving Crozier’s cabin, -all precise motions and slightly furrowed eyebrows in concentration of whatever task he was dealing with,- up until now, when Jopson has found him in the pantry room, double checking the quantity of their supplies.

“Oh.” Comes the soft sound of surprise when the door opens, revealing his angelic face. Jopson’s eyes are big and wonderful in the dim light of the only lantern Edward has with him, and he wishes he could look at them from up close, see all the different shades of that icy light-blue, light-green incredible color. 

It’s such a wonderful surprise that his mind goes blank for a moment before he can bring himself to greet him, “Jopson.”

“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean to disturb.” He’s already moving to close the door, “I will come back later.”

“I wouldn’t mind some company.” Edward hurries to says, maybe with a little too much force, but it makes him stop, and that’s everything he wanted. Jopson lifts his gaze up on him and this time it _stays_ there and Edward is totally captured by it. He offers him a small, reassuring smile, praying it won’t look as eager as it is. “Please, you can stay.”

Jopson simply nods and thanks him with one of those sweet smiles of his, as if Edward had just paid him the greatest compliment (how he wishes he could do that. God only knows all the compliments and sweet and filthy things he has whispered to Thomas Jopson in the privacy of his own sick mind) and heads to one corner of the room, looking for something Edward doesn’t care in the slightest right now: the only thing he’d want Jopson to focus on his himself.

Which turns out to be a thought he immediately regrets, only a few minutes later, because Jopson keeps _looking_ at him, and yes, yes, this is _exactly_ what Edward wanted, _that’_ s the issue: it makes it impossible to focus on anything else. Comparing the numbers on his list to the actual tins is now the hardest task ever; he keeps losing count of the veal tomato stew tins he has already counted three times; the list in his hands has became a blur of nonsense black scribbles.

He doesn’t even _know_ what Jopson is doing here in the pantry room and he would like to ask, but he’s afraid that if he’d open his mouth now his sick thoughts concerning the stewart would come out as well. 

Meanwhile Jopson keeps stealing quick glances at him and Edward is so weak when it comes to him, so _weak_ , so he finds himself doing exactly the same thing: looking over his own shoulder to steal a glance at him, only to find him already looking in his direction. Jopson’s eyes are clear and calm and welcoming, every time they meet his own. Edward has never been good at making small talk and he knows he has no obligations toward a steward -but Jopson is so much more than that, isn’t he?- but he tries is best to say this and that, only to have an excuse to talk to him and look at him while he answers -always politely, in a soft but self-assured tone. Well-mannered, but not weak, he’s so far from being a weak man.

It feels like some kind of game they are playing and Edward loves it, would like to keep going forever.

Jopson seems to gain confidence by the minute and stops fleeting his gaze: instead he starts looking at him with a soft, sincere smile, making it even more unbearable to witness and not touch, and Edward can’t take this sweet torture any longer.

"Don't-" He has to lower his own gaze, running away like a coward from Jopson’s lovely stare, “Don’t look at me like that. Please.”

He doesn't immediately offer a reply and Edward silently chastises himself for speaking in the haste of the moment, not measuring his words better. He risks a look to the steward’s face and surprisingly find no anger or shame on it, just harmless curiosity and a sweet shadow of confusion, which makes him look a bit lost, like a child who has ventured a bit too far in the woods. Edward would gladly takes his hand to help him out of it.

There is also a trace of worry on his beautiful face, which is absurd, but Jopson is always ready to worry and care for everyone else, quietly and effectively, it’s literally his job after all (but is it just that? Edwards muses, or is it his kind soul, that he can see shining through his soft barely-there smiles and big, gleaming eyes?) so perhaps it makes sense, perhaps he’s used to always put everyone else before himself (Edward would change that: he would gladly be the one caring for him when Jopson forgets).

The stewart turns fully towards him, giving him his thorough attention. He straightens his back, lifts his chin up and tilts his head to the side, just a touch. His voice is full of respect for his superior, but has a hint of- _playfulness_ when he says, “How am I looking at you, sir?”

“Like…” He thinks about the right way to say it. “Your eyes are just-” _the most precious thing I’ve ever seen and being looked at by you feels like a constant blessing that I’m sure I’m not worthy of_ , and how could he say that? “You stare at me a lot.” He resign to say, trying his hardest not to sound annoyed by it.

Jopson parts his lips as to speak, but nothing comes out. There is a small, but meaningful crease of concern in between his eyebrows.

“I apologize, sir.” He says, offering a polite smile, regaining his composure, “I will make sure it won’t happen again.” He bows his head and turns his back to him, starting to apparently pick up everything he has collected.

Edward can’t have him leaving like this, not now.

“Wait.”

Jopson stops. He slowly turns around to face Edward again: his gaze goes to Edward’s face, but he quickly fixes it down somewhere on his chest, his face more troubled than what Edward would like.

“Yes, sir?”

He’s not smiling anymore and Edward feels that loss almost achingly.

“I didn’t say I mind it.” He tries to use a conversational tone that doesn’t betray the erratic beating of his heart. “Nor that you should stop.”

Even if Jopson is not looking at his face anymore Edward notices his eyes getting bigger and even more shinier, accompanied by the tiniest curl of a smile.

Jopson finally lifts his gaze on his face again. He looks straight into his eyes. “Are you sure, sir?”

“I am.” He will always be.

“Then I won’t stop." Those sweet dimples appear around his smile, "It will be a pleasure.” 

Edward can feel his own heart skipping a beat as soon as the fear of having ruined this moment melts away. He’s about to say something, but Jopson takes a step towards the door, which accidentally also means towards _Edward_ and says: “And it would be an even greater pleasure to have you looking at me, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Edward feels so warm under his- _interested_ stare.

“I,” he has to clear his voice. Jopson’s eyes are crystal clear and so very bright. “I don’t mind, no. I will make sure to make the most out of it.”

Jopson’s voice is lower than how Edward has ever heard it when he says, holding his gaze: “Very good, sir.”

 _Edward_ , he thinks, _Please, call me Edward_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- posted [on tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/622929063915438080/99-joplittle-i-can-imagine-little-saying-that)  
> -[my inbox](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com) is always open for more prompts, feel free to drop them!


	5. “I just wanted to let you know that I think you’re beautiful.” + “Would you just hold still?” - fitzier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon asked for **35.** “ _I just wanted to let you know that I think you’re beautiful._ ” + **56:** “ _Would you just hold still?_ ” from [this list.](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/622904878424014848/drabble-request-help)
> 
> I loved both of these prompts so much!!!!! domestic bliss+art?? my jam.
> 
> **tags:** domestic; fluff; James drawing Francis; a hint of smut; James' POV.

"I wish to make a portrait of you." 

James says, breaking the quietness of the room. Francis lifts his gaze up from the book he was reading, looking at him with an arched eyebrow, slightly amused, as if James has just said something completely absurd.

"Of me?" Skepticism is plainly written on his face and for James this is just another confirmation that he _has_ to do it.

"Yes,” he gets up and leans toward Francis, a hand on the back of his armchair, “of your handsome face." At this, Francis predictably shakes his head in denial, but with a tender smile still. James feels it lingering on his own lips as well. "I realized I've never even made a sketch of you before and we can't have that."

(That is not entirely true: James has, in fact, made quite a few quick and not so quick sketches of Francis. He just hasn't told him, because he knows Francis would get all nervous about the idea of having being looked at for so long. And yes, James should have probably asked his permission before doing it, but- but sometimes he just feels _so much love_ for Francis, that he has to do something about it, and putting it on paper is a good way to give more space to his bursting heart. By drawing him, James has the chance to admire that lovely face in his own collection of memories, and study that sweet little gap in between his teeth and the self-assured look in his eyes, equally expressed by his eyebrows).

Francis is still looking at him as if he can’t fathom why James has asked something so absurd: both his eyebrows are slightly arched, his wonderful eyes shining with curiosity in the clear light streaming in from the windows; he’s resting his chin on his hand, book momentarily forgot in his lap. 

He’s perfect like this. 

"There are more pleasing subject than me, James.” Francis says, because Francis can’t see himself right now, can’t see himself through James’ eyes, and he intends to change it. 

"There is no one more pleasing than you, my old sea dog." He adds a touch of irony because he knows it’s what makes it easier for Francis to accept compliments. Then he soften his voice, adjusting it to what he wants him to truly understand: "You're everything I want to look at."

"James." He smiles affectionately, eyes cast down, hand reaching up to squeeze his, still on the back of the armchair. "A portrait. Are you sure?"

"I am." He nods. "Just a sketch."

"Mh." He hums, "How long will it take?"

"Only a few minutes, you'll see." James takes his face in both hands and kisses him on his cheek, feeling full of shining gratitude and warm love. "Thank you."

“Of course, if it makes you happy.” Francis answers easily, cheeks slightly pinker than usual. “Well? How do you want me?”

James grins.

**◆◆◆**

"Would you just hold still?" James squints his eyes at Francis, "Only a few more minutes, I promise."

"Mhh." Francis mutters in what James recognizes as agreement. "Remember to make me look less unpleasant than what I-"

"Francis."

"-all these...” he gestures to his own cheek, “... _spots_ , for instance-"

"They're _freckles_ , Francis.” Such an absurd man, sometimes. “Not spots."

"Well, just don't draw them." 

This makes James stop, in order to look at him. "Why not?"

Francis averts his eyes and gives a small shrug, "I'm curious to see what I'd look like without them." 

James knows it’s a lie.

"Too bad I already sketched them." 

This is a lie, as well. He hasn't sketched a single one of them yet. But James adores Francis' freckles, or _spots_ , or whatever he might call them next, and he wants Francis to see it. He wants to show him how beautiful he is, how handsome he looks with his lines of expression and freckles and beauty marks and scars and missing hand. 

James has spent the majority of his life chasing beauty, doing everything in his power to make himself look like what everyone fancied, following every trend, in the hope of looking as beautiful as everyone expected him to be. 

What a fool he’s been, he realizes now, smiling to himself as he studies Francis' face, the curve of his soft lips, the light blush of embarrassment on his cheeks because he is not used at being stared at for so long; what a fool James has been, for thinking beauty was something he could achieve with a new pair of perfectly tailored uniform pants and coat.  
Truth is, beauty lies in every line of expression and gentle wrinkle of Francis' face, in his golden-copper hair, so soft, where James loves to leave kiss after kiss; beauty lies in Francis' relaxed posture, legs fallen gently apart but back still straight, because he's a sailor and a Captain and because sometimes he forgets he can simply: let go; and beauty lies in Francis' relaxed smile, barely there but definitely _there_ , all for James to grasp and appreciate, and it lies in the light-blue eyes of the kindest man James has ever had the pleasure to be close to, and call his.

The 'spots' on Francis' face only serve to make him more irresistible- as if freckles would be unpleasant anyway, what an absurd thought. James starts working on them, focusing on their different shapes and tones, some darker, some just barely there shadows scattered across Francis' nose.

"How is it turning out?" 

James bites his tongue to keep from smiling at Francis’ eagerness. "Patience, darling."

Francis snorts, but his voice is full of affectionate teasing when he says, "Alright, Joshua Reynolds."

This time James doesn’t even try to hide his laughters, instead glances sideways at him, "Don't tempt me to add a voluminous powdery wig-"

Francis’ eyes widen in horror, "God forbid!"

They both end up giggling like little kids.

After that, it's only a couple of more minutes before Francis speaks again.

"At least don't draw _every_ freckle-"

" _Be still_ , Francis. And quiet, if you can manage." He adds, before Francis could say something absolutely ridiculous like 'make them look beautiful because they are not and they make me look ugly.'

"The more you tell me to hold still, the less I can do it." He laments, but lightly, with a smile. 

"It's almost done, I promise." James nibbles at his bottom lip, lost in adding the final touches. "Please don't make me tell you to hold still again."

**◆◆◆**

In the end, James has to tell him to hold still again. Twice, in fact.

One:

when James announces he has finished the portrait and Francis almost jumps to his feet, rushing to see it, so James hides his album against his own chest, lifts a hand in front of himself to stop him and says, "Be still, I’ll be right back" because he wants to add his signature at the bottom right corner, and his fountain pen is in the other room.

Two: 

once James is back, signature added and dried, he sits back on the sofa, where Francis immediately joins him. 

This is where Francis spends a good five minutes in almost complete silence, staring at his portrait, and if initially James was pleased because of his stunned silence, now it’s becoming quite unnerving. He has made a mess, surely. Francis must hate it. James has offended him, God, he shouldn’t have- 

But then Francis simply meets his gaze again, with such a serene expression, and he carefully places the album next to him on the sofa, takes one of James' hands in his own, brings it up to his lips and places a kiss on his knuckles and murmurs, with such a sweet voice: "My James," and that's already enough to fill James with happiness for the next fifty years, but then Francis also kisses the back of his hand and says: "My incredibly talented James."

He has to swallow a couple of times before he can speak again. 

"So you don't hate it?"

"I like it. Incredibly so." He glances at James’ drawing once again, then back at him, this time smiling teasingly, "Even if you lied and added those spots anyway-"

"Oh, for God's sake-"

Francis laughs and kisses him with genuine enthusiasm.

"James,” he says when they part, “I love it." His eyes are shining, "I wish we could frame it so everyone could appreciate it."

What an absurd idea. God, he would love that _so much_. 

"Ah, stop it, now." He squeezes Francis’ hand, hoping he would understand everything his heart is saying. 

"I'm serious." Francis caresses the side of his face, "But then again, I think I’d love to keep it all to myself. Just like I do with you."

James kisses him smiling so widely it almost makes it awkward, but hell, he loves it.

"I just wanted to let you know that I think you're beautiful." He whispers when they part, resting his forehead against his.

Francis squeezes his hand gently, "I appreciate it, very much." 

"No, Francis.” James moves back to look at him properly, “Listen to me. You're beautiful. You're so handsome."

"James-"

"If you don't want to listen to it, then at least let me show you."

Francis seems to be wanting to answer back, say something, lips parted and moving around unsaid words.

"Alright." He simply says at last, "show me, then."

This is how, a few minutes later, James has to tell him once again: "Would you just hold still?" this time murmuring it right on his warm skin, because Francis keeps wriggling underneath him, since James is working his mouth on the side of his neck, leaving mark after mark on his pale skin, and James also has a hand in Francis’ pants, languidly stroking him in time with the slow, languid movements of his tongue under his ear.

" _Fucking-_ " Francis’ entire body has a tiny, but powerful spasm when James bites down lightly on the mark he just made, while changing the angle of his hand, to stroke him better, "James, god-"

"Keep still, Francis." He murmurs, right against his ear, "And let me show you."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- for the part where James draws Francis I had [this amazing artwork ](https://amatlapal.tumblr.com/post/614604328896020480/i-wanna-do-a-whole-return-to-england-comic-but)by the equally amazing [@amatlapal](https://amatlapal.tumblr.com/) stuck in my mind :')
> 
> \- posted [on tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/623008178517475328/can-i-get-uhhhhhhhhhhh-a-little-bit-of-35-please).
> 
> \- [my inbox](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com) is always open for more prompts, feel free to drop them!
> 
> \- shoutout to Sir Joshua Reynolds.


	6. "Be you. No one else can." - james

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [i-am-a-hog](https://i-am-a-hog.tumblr.com) asked for "Jeames and 50 👁️😇" from [this list](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/622904878424014848/drabble-request-help) ( _ **50.**_ _"Be you. No one else can.")_
> 
>  **tags:** modern au, established relationship, james in a skirt :]

"Just be you," Francis had said, with that gentle voice of his, as if he was trying to calm down a scared puppy, "no one else can." 

_Be you._

This is what James keeps repeating himself like a mantra while he gets dressed, putting on the skirt with trembling fingers that keep getting tangled up in its laces. He has to press his hands over the flat of his stomach and take a deep breath to steal his nerves, before trying again.

The skirt is long enough that it doesn't look anything scandalous, it gets just past his knees. He's planning to wear his ankle boots with it, so there won't be too much of his skin exposed anyway. Then, the shirt: Francis said he looked -what was it?- _divine,_ in that black see-through chemise, so of course he reaches for that. He finishes everything off with his blazer, the one he's had for years, and the only thing he has already worn out of his apartment. It's a male blazer. Everything else on his body it’s not a male _anything_.

He's in total black, because he feels like the monochrome protects him, makes him less visible, less obvious. Less of a target. He's going to look weird enough like this already, he thinks, while turning to the mirror-

His mind shuts itself, deleting the previous comment, replacing 'weird' with 'beautiful' and 'elegant'.

He looks good. Very good. His outfit looks like it's been made for him, for this day exactly. 

The skirt has a high-waisted cut that accentuates his slender figure, making him look even taller, highlighting his narrow hips, his flat chest and his strong shoulders. He likes that there is no breast above the end of the skirt. He doesn't feel like it's missing, he doesn't wish to have it. He likes his body as it is: he is a man and has always felt okay with that. He, altough, also likes it when Francis calls him _pretty_ , and _my beautiful girl_ and those couple of times when he’d asked James if he could " _spread your legs for me so I can fuck your pretty cunt, baby, will you?"_ he had almost pass out from how aroused he was.

But still, he thinks of himself as a man. He just likes to wear skirts and dresses sometimes, as well as heels and stilettos -even if he still can't walk in those for shit, and probably never will, he suspects. But he also loves to look at himself in the mirror when draped in his favourite suit, dark pants and blazer coordinated, polished Oxfords shining on his feet and leather belt on his waist. 

He simply likes to give every possible version of himself a chance, he thinks.

Still, doing this out of the safety of his home feels risky. He knows very well that people -transgender men and women, non-binary people and everyone who's not a cis person,- experience way bigger problems than this silly little thing, he is well aware and thankful to have a partner (he still gets a shiver when thinking about Francis like that) who supports him in everything he does, even this. He's lucky and he knows it. He's just scared about stepping out into the sun like this. 

But, he tells himself, Francis is going to be there, waiting for him. Francis will get it, understand this. He's smart and clever and incredibly open-minded. And he loves James. He had said he looked divine in his black chemise.

"Just be you," he whispers, taking one last breath, "it's alright. It's just clothes."

⃟

It's just clothes, and yet, the moment Francis spots him at the train station his eyes light up, his whole face goes from surprised to astonished, to admired, to smitten, all in a matter of seconds.

The kiss Francis leaves on his cheek is warm, his lips linger there. He squeezes both hands on James' arms, keeping him close, "You look amazing. You always look amazing, but," he takes a good look at him. James fights the urge to squirm, "this- I'm glad you went with this. It suits you."

"I tried to be me," he says, faking nonchalance, "as you told me."

"Then I have to thank my past self very profusely for that." He smiles softly. He leans towards James and leaves a gentle, oh-so-sweet kiss on his lips. It's completely chaste, something they can allow themselves even here, but it's all the same so full of care that it makes James' legs feel wobbly. 

"I'm very proud of you." Francis whispers, that soft smile still on his lips, "I hope you are, as well."

"Francis, it's nothing," he fights to swallow, his throat as dry as a desert, "it's just clothes."

"It is." He says, "or well, it should be. But we know it's never just clothes."

James feels it, in moments as this: how incredibly blessed he is to have someone like this in his life.

"You sure you're okay with it?" He has to ask once again.

"Trust me," Francis nods, "I am. I feel like the luckiest man on the entire fucking planet right now, James, I'm not sure you realize it."

This makes him laugh, finally, and it feels so liberating, as if he’s been holding his breath since leaving the house. He looks at Francis' beautiful, handsome caring face, feeling ten times lighter. "Make me realize it?" 

This time Francis kisses him with his entire being, so much that it leaves him with his head spinning.

Someone close to them ends up giggling and clapping. James’ cheeks burn with delicious embarrassment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -posted [ on tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/628249348696915969/jeames-and-50)
> 
> \- now with [an amazing fanart](https://twitter.com/scyzora_x/status/1303018519290884102?s=20) by Ewa!! I died!


	7. A 300 words fantasy one of them has about the other - fitzier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honeybeelullaby asked for **n.28** ( _Write a ~300 fantasy one of them has about the other_ ) from [this list.](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/635434645552513024/otp-asks)
> 
> **tags:** canon, fitzier, cock warming, D/s kind of??, sexual fantasy, Francis' POV.

Francis is so tired of taking decisions that are always hard and too often wrong. 

It's not like he can possibly stop doing that, but what he can do is granting himself these few moments when he's almost asleep, numbed by alcohol and weariness, when it's so easy to let his mind wonder.

He makes up a different, absurd reality where James is the Captain of the Expedition, and Francis is–- whoever, it doesn't matter. The important thing is that he's not the First in command, so he doesn't have to think, doesn't have to take decisions. 

He dreams about James telling - _ordering_ \- him to kneel on the floor, in between his legs. Under the Great Cabin's table. James would be working, fulfilling his Captain's duties, and Francis would be there for him.

James would make space for him in between his strong thighs and he would gracefully take himself out, his long fingers around his soft prick. He would guide himself into Francis' mouth, a gentle " _open up"_ coming from over the edge of the table and maybe a soft touch on Francis' chin. Francis would not be able to see him, but he wouldn't need that: he had been given an order, a simple, blissfully easy-to-follow order, so he would open his mouth for James and obediently take him in. Feeling his weight on his tongue.

_"Don't move_ ," James would whisper, " _don't suck. Just keep me warm."_

And that would be it.

Francis would shatter his knees on the hard wooden floor in order to keep James' cock warm and safe, and his mind would be blank, empty, there would be no worries behind his eyelids, no horrors to live again. 

His senses would be entirely filled by James, the warmth of his thighs, the realness of his body into Francis' mouth, his gentle whispers now and then (" _keep breathing, Francis_ ," and " _you're doing so well,"_ and _"close your eyes_ ") and nothing else. His own hard cock would be so easy to ignore until James would decide if he's done a good enough job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- posted on [tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/635521924100915200/for-the-otp-asks-28)


	8. Write a short exchange of dirty talk between them. - fitzier (Tinder AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jurian-is-cinnamon-roll asked for **n. 30** ( _Write a short exchange of dirty talk between them)_ from [this list](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/635434645552513024/otp-asks).
> 
> Set in my [Tinder AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27400129/chapters/66966937) (♡)
> 
> **tags** : Modern AU, established relationship, sexting, phone sex, smut.

J: _busy?_

F: _I can talk._ _Everything ok?_

J: _yes I just need you_

F: _What is it?_

J: _i'm all wet_

J: _couldn't wait couldn't help myself_

F: _That's alright love. You made a mess of yourself?_

J: _yes_

J: _francis_

J: _please_

F: _I'm giving you my fingers. Can you feel them?_

J: _yes_

J: _how many fingers_

F: _Two, right away because I know how greedy you are for them and I waste no time with just one_

F: _Because you need more than that._

J: _perfectyes_

F: _I'm pushing my fingers in you, opening you up slowly for my cock_

J: _please_

J: _your big cock_

F: _Yes darling, I'm getting you ready for it, stroking at your prostrate until you're almost in tears for how you're worked up_

F: _Scissoring my fingers in you_

F: _You're so tight around me, such a me tight little ass_

J: _so good please more more iw ant u to fill me up_

F: _That's what I'm gonna do after I have you nice and loose for my cock so I can push in all the way and feel you clench around me. Delicious_

J: _daddy_

J: _francis_

F: _I'm not touching your pretty cock_

F: _I'm sucking on your right nipple_

F: _Slowly at first_

F: _Then harder. Sucking your tit in my mouth._

[ INCOMING CALL BY: **James** ]

"James."

"Francis," he's panting hard, voice low and raspy with pleasure, "tell me how you're touching me."

"I'm touching myself while I look at how lost in pleasure you are, because you're so hot, James, damn you, when you arch your neck like that I just want to cover you in bites-"

A high pitched moan interrupts him, "I want you to do that, want everyone to see what you do to me."

"Next time," he says, tugging almost viciously at his own hard cock, "I'll give you a nice necklace of bites and marks, so you can touch them and feel me the next day."

"Please, yes," James says, "daddy."

"God- James," he squeezes his eyes shut, "you're so tight around my fingers."

There is a desperate muffled moan from the other end of the phone and then more sounds, _whimpers_ , and by now Francis knows that this is what James sounds like when he comes.

It's a full minute before James speaks again.

"Christ, you always leave me so messy," he breathes, low, right in Francis' ear, "loose and dripping," he purrs, "ready to take your fat cock, Francis."

" _Fuck_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- posted on [tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/635477085745496064/otp-asks-number-30-please)


	9. "I apologise sincerely if my handsome face has kept you awake all night.” - fitzconte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> calamitys-child asked for fitzconte + **n. 97** ( ** _"_** _I apologise sincerely if my handsome face has kept you awake all night.”_ ) from [this list _._](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/635665824108216320/prompt-list-5)
> 
> modern AU, they're in their 20s.

Henry is woken up by a suffering groan coming from next to him. He relaxes after the initial confusion, pulling James closer without opening his eyes.

"'Morning, Princess."

James groans again, "shut up," but he doesn't pull away: he pushes his ass back against Harry's half hard dick and brings his arm tightly around himself. "Slept like shit."

Henry leaves a kiss on the nape of his neck, as in apology.

"I bet you were thinking about me and couldn't fall asleep," he jokes, rubbing his cheek on James' skin, "I apologise sincerely if my handsome face has kept you awake all night.”

"Wasn't your face, you git." James kicks him lightly under the covers, "those legs of yours."

Henry lifts an eyebrow, "my legs?"

"Yeah, they were..." James makes a vague movement with a hand, "everywhere."

"Says the giraffe man." Henry laughs, "do you know you kick in your sleep?"

This has James turning around in his arms, eyes wide in horror.

"I do not!"

"Yes, you do, love." He grins, "I don't know how I manage to never fall off the bed."

James whines into the pillow.

"It's this fucking single bed."

Henry pets his hair quietly. It's getting longer, because James has decided to let it grow ("I don't want people to think I'm straight" he said. Henry snorted, "James, I don't think there's one single person who would believe you're straight, short hair or not." "Whatever, I'll try." He had a moment of hesitation, "what do you think? Will I look pretentious? Stupid?" "I think you're going to look very good, just like you always do" "Yes, but-" "No you won't look pretentious." "Okay." He kissed Henry's cheek, "thanks, Dundy.")

It's still at that awkward length where it's not short anymore but it's not long yet, and if most of the time James manages to pull the look off one way or another, right now, with bed hair and the pillow crease imprinted on his cheekbone he looks like a sweet little ruffled sparrow. Henry threads his fingers in his hair and James arches his neck to the side without having been told. His eyes are half lidded with sleep and– something warm.

Henry pushes him on his front and James lets him, lets himself be turned and shifted around. He grinds his hips down on the bed almost unconsciously. Henry moves over him, straddling his ass and drapes himself over James, who lets go of a surprised whine when Henry kisses behind his ear.

"I need a bigger bed."

"You need a bigger bed." James agrees, breathless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- posted on [tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/635670196478246912/84-fitzier-or-97-fitzconte-writers-preference).


	10. "Have you ever kissed anyone before?" - fitzier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seaweednpeanuts asked for fitzier + **n.1** (" _Have you ever kissed anyone before?_ ") from [this list](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/635665824108216320/prompt-list-5).
> 
> **tags** : canon compliant, James' POV, first kiss.

“Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

James chokes on his drink. He clasps a hand over his mouth, coughing while drops of whiskey escape his lips, sliding down his chin.

It takes him a minute to put himself together. 

He turns to Francis, who's standing with his hands clasped behind his back, the line of his jaw hard.

"Excuse me?"

"Kissed, James." Francis says again, "have you ever been kissed?"

James snorts.

"What kind of question is that–"

"A very simple one, I believe. Easy enough for you to answer."

James shrugs, avoiding Francis' gaze. "Of course."

"Of course _what_?"

This is exasperating.

"Why are you toying with me like–"

"I am not." Francis says with emphasis, "just answer my question."

James raises his chin, doing what he does best: making himself look confident and in control while in reality he has no idea what he's doing.

"I have."

"You have _what?"_

"Oh my God, Francis!" He feels his hands starting to sweat. "Drop it."

"Why?"

"Because _no,_ " he spits the word out, "I've never been kissed before." It's strange, saying it out loud, having someone else knowing the truth. "Are you happy now? I thought you better than this, making fun of other people's–"

James' speech dies in his throat, because Francis' hand is suddenly on his elbow. Just resting there, gently.

James stares at it as if it were alien. It kind of his.

"I asked," Francis says, "because if we are to die here, I don't want any of us to have any more regrets than what we already have." He licks his lips in a quick tick, "and if I can do something for any of my men, then I will–"

"I don't want your pity, Francis." _I want what you're implying, but never if it is an act of pity. I would die without it, it would hurt less._

"It's not pity, James, damn you," Francis is losing his patience, he can tell, "I'm trying to tell you that– ah, for God's sake, this is not working–"

"What is not w–"

"James," Francis looks at him straight in the eye. His hand is still on James' elbows. "Let me kiss you."

James opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. He sucks in a breath. "It's not pity." He says.

Francis shakes his head.

"I would never do that. I know what pity feels like, you know I do."

"Yes." James says. He thanks the heavens because Francis understands what his answer really is for and kisses him. 

James is not a virgin: far from it, in fact. He has had sex in various forms with quite a few people, has nothing to envy to other men of his age and position. He has been with a scarce number of women, and with far more men. But he has never kissed anyone. No one has ever kissed him. People have touched him, sometimes roughly, other times almost gently; they have touched and sucked and licked and left marks, but they have never kissed him. He was curious about it, when he was younger, but all he got back then were quick, furtive meetings with other ships boys like him and those left no time for kisses. Later, he started frequenting brothels for men like him, men that looked for other men. They too hadn't tried to kiss him, and James was so used to the absence of those touches that he forgot to ask. Now, he regrets not having tilted his head towards those nameless men in the past, to push his lips on theirs. He longs to find out what a kiss feels like, what does it make you feel.

Sometimes he thinks about it: the handsomest man in the Royal Navy has never kissed anyone. It sounds like a joke, exactly like the rest of his life.

James thinks about all of this in the incredibly short instant that precedes Francis' lips touching his own.

And then he's being kissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- posted [on tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/635710015432540160/1-from-the-prompt-list-have-you-ever-kissed).


	11. “Can anyone else hear those Jumanji like drums? Or is it just me?” - fitzier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **glorioustidalwavedefendor** who asked for **fitzier + 42** ( **“** _Can anyone else hear those Jumanji like drums? Or is it just me?”_ ) from [this list](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/635665824108216320/prompt-list-5).
> 
> **tags** : modern AU, kisses, fools in love!!

The lights in the club are so low that Francis almost misses how James is focusing on something only he can seem to hear, or see, until his boyfriend grabs him by the sleeve and looks at their little group, wide-eyed: “Can anyone else hear those Jumanji like drums? Or is it just me?”

"Those _what_ ," both of Francis's eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. Next to him, Ross laughs into his drink.

"Jumanji drums," James repeats, absolutely serious-- or as serious as a drunk 35-years old man wearing a black mesh crop-top can look like, anyway. "They're going like...” He frowns, deep in concentration, then chants: “ _du-dum! Du-dum! Du-dudum!_ ", accompanying the sounds with the beating movements of both hands on Francis’ chest.

"Oh my God, _stop_ , you're too cute." Francis grabs both his wrists, immobilizing James’ hands on his own chest. James sways towards him, like a very tall tree ready to fall down on its side.

"I'm drunk, actually." James grins, his gaze liquid and indeed unfocused, “but I love when you call me cute. Do that again.”

"Oh no, he’s clingy-drunk tonight,” Ross rolls his eyes, but there’s no real annoyance in his voice, and he’s smiling at them. “Francis, get ready to have him plastered at your side all night.”

Francis, for his part, can’t stop staring at James with what he knows to be a completely besotted look on his face. He’s got both arms around James’ waist, keeping him close and he’s barely restraining himself from pushing his face in James’ hair, because he knows what it would smell like.

(Like Francis’ own shampoo, because James has spent the last two days at his place, has showered in his shower, has let Francis wash his hair for him).

(This has brought to the inevitable and incredibly good conclusion of James getting hard _again_ and Francis rushing both of them out of the shower to bring him to bed and suck him off. Again.)

He brushes the tip of his nose against James’ own. “That’s not a problem for me.”

“Right,” Ross laughs, shaking his head. “I keep forgetting you’re equally smitten for each other.”

Francis doesn’t answer immediately, too engrossed in watching the colorful lights of the club dancing on James’ face and hair.

“That’s possible.” He says at length, kissing his boyfriend with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- posted [on tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/636145845892481024/hi-you-offered-to-write-some-nice-little)


	12. "I thought you'd never ask." + fitzconte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> veganthranduil asked for fitzconte + _"I thought you'd never ask."_ from [this list.](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/636206929657643008)
> 
> Set at Carnival.

"Can I have this dance, my queen?"

"Ah, Lieutenant Le Vesconte,” James hides his smile behind a gloved hand, playing shy. “I thought you'd never ask."

"I can't possibly leave the loveliest lady unaccompanied, now, can I?" Henry offers him his hands. Someone on his right whistles at that.

"I suppose you can't." James bows for him, pushing his chest forward almost comically, arching his back too deeply, making a show out of it for the men, who indeed bark out laughs and chuckles at his little display. James lifts his skirts carefully, but too high up, no respectable lady would uncover her ankles like that- but James’ ankles are not on display (sadly), because his black boots hide them.

The image has a comical effect for sure, but it also stirs something in Henry’s stomach, for how James is peering at him from under his black lashes. The warm lights of lanterns and torches make his tin lips look a bit fuller, almost smudging their outline. Almost as if he were wearing red on his lips, that got smudged after a deep kiss.

When James takes his hand, Henry pulls him close to himself with intention, making him bump against his own chest.

“I say!” James cries, “my lord, if you dance the same way you treat a lady, you’re going to ruin my dress after one single minute!”

“Are you doubting my skills, my queen?”

“What if I am?” James asks, with a twinkle in his eyes, just for Henry to see.

“I’ve never met a lady who’d challenge me like that! Are you sure you’re not hiding…” Henry obviously drops his gaze on James’ groin and loudly proclaims: “ _something_?”

A choir of laughters and “ _ooohhh!_ ”s rises up from the men gathered around them, now fully focused on the queer exchange happening between their Captain and First Lieutenant.

Henry expects James to say something witty, maybe playing coy, maybe even slapping him playfully, and he indeed does it (“Lieutenant!” he smacks Henry on the shoulder, “You’re a terrible man!”) but only after a tiny little moment of surprise, that has James’ eyes widening and, Henry thinks, his high cheekbones taking a deeper shade.

They’re both talking way more loudly than they normally would, so that everyone can hear and get a laugh out of it. For this same reason, Henry decides to say: “Then it’s you who should lead.”

“Gladly.” James grins at him. “I’ll show you what a lady can do.”

This gets more exclamations rising from the men around them.

“I don’t doubt it.” Henry says, quieter, just for him to hear.

Having the two men of the highest ranks, right after Crozier, dancing together, the Captain dressed as Lady Britannia but nevertheless leading the dance, is apparently a great show to witness, if Henry is to judge by the laughters, whistles and delighted cries all around them.

In his arms, James feels both like a man and a lady: his body is strong, full of angles and flat surfaces, it feels like holding a greek marble statue of Apollo; but James is also incredibly woman-like: his gaze is soft, his cheeks are definitely covered by a veil of rouge blush now, and he moves like a lady, even if he’s the one leading their dance: he makes Henry twirl, just like the male part of a normal dancing couple would do with his counterpart, but he’s the one moving elegantly, hands fluttering gently to brush his long hair away from his face, when a few locks of it fall in front of his eyes with their movements.

“Where did you learn to dance like this?” Henry asks when the next spin brings them close again. He knows the answer perfectly, and James’ eyes glint when he says: “On a ship, not unlike this one.”

“Who taught you?”

“Someone I held close to my heart.” James says, pulling him even closer to himself with the hand he firmly keeps on Henry’s lower back. “Still do.”

“A lucky fellow,” Henry says, “to have a lady such as yourself keeping him in her good graces.”

“Indeed,” James looks at him in the eye, his gaze deep, “he should never forget it: my opinion of him will never change.”

Later, Henry will go to James’ cabin and he will give him the kiss he’s forcing himself to bite down right now. It will be slow and wet, one of those kisses that have James’ knees buckle so that he has to hold onto Henry’s arm for support; Henry will take him apart with deep kisses, wet licks on the side of his long neck and clever movements of his hand on James’ delicious hardness, before taking it all in his mouth; he will choke on James’ cock while pushing a finger or maybe two into his body and he will relish in every single one of James’ cries, muffled by his pillow, maybe his own hand, maybe _Henry_ ’s hand. He will have James spending copiously in his mouth and he will finish deep into his body, warm and tight as a filthy hug, while James will still be catching his breath and maybe mumbling some nonsense like he always does when he’s dazed and confused after an orgasm, something like, “Henry...Dundy- you’ve got the most perfect prick, make me feel it,” and Henry will say something equally nonsense while panting in his kisses, something like, “you’re gonna feel it for days, every single time you’re going to sit down, James, my queen-” and James will tighten his arms around him, because he always gets like this whenever Henry calls him something like “my girl” or “beautiful” or “sweetheart”.

But for now, everything Henry can say is: “he could never forget.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- posted [on tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/636216984276779008/for-the-fitzconte-prompts-i-thought-youd-never).
> 
> \- feel free to drop me more fitzconte prompts! I'm slow at writing tumblr prompts, but I *will* write them all!


	13. "I just wanted to make you laugh" + fitzconte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for **fitzconte** \+ prompt _"I just wanted to make you laugh"_ from [this list](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/636206929657643008).   
>  **tags** : modern au, they’re 20something, light and funny. And: _**ABBA**_.    
>  I’m also using this to fill my Bingo square “[You mustn’t lose heart](https://i.ibb.co/n64NsSq/1608741881177.jpg)” :]

Henry is dozing on the couch when James bursts into their little apartment, slamming the door behind himself like a tornado.

"Hey!" 

James doesn't reply, doesn't even lift his eyes from his feet. He marches straight to his room, slamming that door closed as well.

Both curious and confused, Henry chases after him: when James is upset, or mad about something, he usually spills it out without even being prompted, even when Henry is busy, so this self-isolation is kind of unusual for him. 

Henry braces himself for the worst news possible and knocks cautiously at the door.

"James?"

" _Mmmhp._ " Comes the very articulate reply from behind it.

"Can I come in?"

There’s a beat of silence. 

"I guess."

Henry finds him laying face down on the bed, still wearing both his coat and scarf.

"Are you alright?"

James groans dramatically into the pillow.

"No, I'm not, alright, I'm _single_." He almost spits the word out, "Fuck."

"Oh, Jas. I'm sorry." Henry sits on the edge of the bed, close to him and places a hand on James’ arm. "Hug?"

James groans again, but lifts his face and turns towards him. Then he proceeds to collapse in his arms.

"Fuck, Dundy." He sighs heavily, "Just– _fuck_. Why does it never work?"

"It's not your fault." 

“Okay, but… _Still_.” 

Henry pets his hair with gentle, soothing movements. "You wanna tell me how it happened? Do I have to go and beat the shit out of someone to defend your honour?"

James huffs a laugh against his shoulder. "No… He didn't do anything wrong. I suppose. He didn't cheat or anything."

"That's good, at least I don't have to go spray paint ' _you bloody asshole’_ in hot pink on his car."

James chuckles against his sweatshirt, then shuffles back to look at him. He looks tired and somewhat hopeless and it makes Henry’s heart shrink.

"He just told me he didn't want to be with me anymore. That I'm not 'what he's looking for', Jesus, what that's supposed to mean? _What_ is he looking for?" He shakes his head, "Fuck, Dundy, I thought… I don’t know— It’s stupid."

“It's not. And in any case, you’ve just been dumped: you’re allowed to say stupid shit.”

James snorts at that, but doesn’t stop hugging him. His cheek rests on Henry’s shoulder. 

It's certainly not the first breakup James goes through, but he’s usually the one leaving his partners, so this must be kind of a new experience for him. He looks so sad and even a bit confused, his brows pinched, his gaze lost somewhere, probably replaying whatever Graham told him. He looks weirdly small in his big, half-unbuttoned coat, so Henry helps him take it and his scarf off, setting them on the side. He always enters a kind of “ _must-take-care-of-you_ ” mode when James isn’t well, without even thinking about it.

"You know that he's an idiot for letting you go, right?"

James shrugs weakly. "He made a choice."

"A shitty choice."

James laughs, defeated. "A shitty... everything."

"No, don't do that." Henry points a finger at him, hoping to look threatening, "You're allowed to be angry and sad about it, but you're not allowed to sulk or feel bad about yourself. You mustn’t lose heart. Alright?"

“Says who.” James mutters weakly. Henry places both hands on the side of his face and purposefully squeezes his cheeks, making him snort a laugh again.

“I say it. It’s a rule now.”

There are lots of rules in the Le Vesconte-Fitzjames house: from the “ _anytime one of us feels shitty, the other is demanded to provide alcohol, the Dirty Dancing DVD & peanut butter cookies _ ”, to the unspoken “ _we sometimes kiss and jerk each other off, but never when one of us is seeing someone else_ ”, so this too can easily become a new rule.

James smiles a little, but shakes his head.

"I can't not think— did I do something wrong?” He asks, looking at Henry with big, confused eyes, “Was I too clingy? You know Graham didn't like when I was like that—"

" _And_ self-doubt is banned as well." Henry proclaims.

"But what if—"

" _No_." He looks at him, "don't. I've seen you with him and you never did anything wrong. Alright?”

“Mmh’lright.” He mumbles, collapsing again against Henry’s shoulder.

Suddenly, Henry has an idea.

"Hey, do you want to get wasted? So we can swear at Graham without feeling bad since he’s actually not a shitty person?"

"Not wasted I think, but I'd like a beer. Or three. To stop thinking about” James moves his hand around, “this."

"Great, I'll get them.” Henry stands up, “You stay here."

James lifts an eyebrow at him, "Where would I go?"

"Just stay."

He makes sure James nods before heading to the kitchen. He grabs two beers and goes to his own room.

(They mutually decided to keep separated rooms, even if most of the time they end up sharing the same bed.)

Henry gets everything he needs as quickly as possible, setting his plan into motion.

* * *

James is not really in the mood for a beer, but he figured it would at least help him stop obsessing about what happened. This, at least, would be if Dundy would have actually come back with the promised beers, but it’s been ten minutes now and he’s nowhere to be seen. James feels like he’s been kicked and tossed around all day, so there’s no way he’s going to get up and go looking for him, he’s staying right here, curled up on his bed, feeling miserable, thank you. Possibly for the entire week.

"Dundy?” He calls for him, sounding lamentuous even to his own ears, “Did the beers kidnap you?"

And that's when he hears it.

_If you change your mind, I'm the first in line._

He sits up on the bed. It sounds like Dundy has put on the music on his battered laptop, the song coming from somewhere in the living room.

"Why ABBA--" 

He never gets to finish the sentence, because Dundy enters the room in a swift motion, socked feet sliding on the floor while he dances following the rhythm of the song. He’s wearing his improbable star-shaped glittery sunglasses, his bright light-blue mesh top ( _over_ his sweater) and he’s holding James’ hairbrush as it’d be a microphone.

" _Honey I'm still free, take a chance on me_ ," Dundy sings along with the music, terribly out of tune and pointing the hairbrush at him.

"What are you doing, oh my god," James laughs, "It's not ABBA time."

Dundy makes a horrified face.

"Excuse me! It's _always_ ABBA time. _If you've got no place to go, when you're feeling down_ ," he keeps singing, holding out a hand for James, "you know the rules, Jamie: when one of us sings ABBA, the other has to join. Come!"

“No, Dundy, I’m not in the mood.” He says, but he can’t keep a straight face with Dundy dancing around him like he’s performing at the most important concert of his career. James lets him take his hand while Dundy circles him, jumping on the bed, then down again and repeating the moves.

“No excuses, James. Up, up!” Henry shakes his hand, pulling him toward himself, “ _If you put me to the test, if you let me try,_ ” he sings, locks of hair falling in front of his sunglasses. “Hey, do I have to do everything by myself in this house? Alright then,” the next part makes James almost weep from how hard his laughing at Dundy’s interpretation (at “ _we can go dancing_ ” he dances in a very 80s style, almost aerobic dance, jumping in place and still pointing at James; at “ _we can go walking_ ” he mimics a very slow, flirtatious walk that no one would ever actually use; at “ _as long as we're together_ ” he takes both of James hands in his own and leaves a loud smacking kiss on his cheek).

“You’re killing me, please stop,” James implores him, with tears in his eyes, because for every new lyric Dundy has some weird moves perfectly planned.

“Not until you join me,” he shouts over the music, a bit out of breath. Then his eyes light up: “Oh, next lyric! It’s yours!”

“Jesus,” James stands up, feeling light for the first time in the entire day, “Alright.”

“Yes!” Dundy jumps in his arms, almost toppling both of them on the floor.

James sings while keeping both of them upright, somehow, “' _Cause you know I've got_ ,” and Dundy joins him for the rest of the line, both of them shouting the lyrics at the top of their lungs, “ _so much that I wanna do, when I dream I'm alone with you, it's magic.”_

“Fuck, you’re too heavy, I can’t do all of this,” James pants while laughing and singing all together. He lets Dundy down on the bed.

“I am _what_ ,” Dundy throws him a look of disbelief, and hooks his feet on the back of James’ legs, effectively stopping him in place. “I beg your pardon?”

James smirks and places his hands on the bed, at Dundy’s sides, coming face to face with him, “I said, madame, that you’re surprisingly heavy for a lady.”

Dundy dramatically places a hand over his heart, “Heavens, I can’t believe the audacity! My honour will never recover from this.”

“Your honour? You still have some of it left?”

Dundy gasps, widening his eyes. Then he pulls James towards him, making him collapse on top of him. This leads to them wrestling each other until they’re both breathless and they end up with Dundy draped across James’ body, both of them laying face down on the bed.

“Why the ABBA madness all of a sudden?” James asks.

Dundy turns to look at him and shrugs, "I just wanted to make you laugh."

James’s heart sizes in his chest. It’s in moments like this that he’s reminded of why he and Henry are still as close as they were when they first became friends, and why James loves him so dearly still. They spend most of their time together having fun, but then Henry would do or say something like this, so deeply honest that it makes James marvels at how good of a person he is and how lucky he himself is of having Henry as part of his family.

James hugs him tightly, leaving a kiss on his eyebrow, making the star-shaped sunglasses slide down his nose. He steals them from him and wears them proudly. Henry beams at him.

“Hey,” James says, “What about those beers? I think I want them now.”

“Oh, I could kiss you.”

“What's stopping you?” He grins.

Dundy takes his face in his hands and kisses him on the lips, a chaste touch. Then kisses him everywhere else on his face, covering every inch of skin with his lips, until James is laughing and squirming in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- posted [on tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/638313829323898881/can-i-request-i-just-wanted-to-make-you-laugh).


	14. "not so cocky now, are you?" + fitzier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked for " _not so cocky now, are you?_ " + **fitzier** from [this list](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/636206929657643008)
> 
> **tags:** dub-con, blowjob

James' eyes burn.

His throat burns, his cheeks are on fire, the back of his neck prickles with sweat, his collar shirt sticks to his skin, suffocating him.

His neck aches from keeping the same position for so long, the angle unforgiving as Francis fucks his throat mercilessly, a hand cupping the side of his face to keep him still. His palm sticks to James’ skin too, its warmth making his eyes swell with tears, as a fever growing from his chest and going up to his face, filling his nostrils, making it even harder to breathe with his nose, careful not to close his mouth even a touch, because “ _do something funny and I’ll have everyone know how much you love being on your knees for me._ ”

“Not so cocky now, are you?” Francis pants, from above him. He strokes his thumb on James’ outstretched lips, almost gently, but pushes his hips against his face in sharp motions.

He’s at his worst like this, drunk on too much whiskey -again,- and on power -that’s a novelty,- as he thrusts his prick in James’ mouth, again and again.

If he could answer, James would say something witty like “your only way to silence me is to physically do so, not such a great victory”, but he can’t speak, can barely breathe, so he only manages an outraged breath that does absolutely nothing to intimidate Francis.

He hates it. Hates him. But Christ, when was the last time he’s been this warm?

He can’t even recall.

All of this is awful, not because there is spit running down his chin, or because his prick aches in his uniform, shamelessly so, like a disobedient creature who does what it pleases, but because Francis’ eyes are hollow as he moves. It makes him feel empty too, desperate in a resigned way, so typical of Francis.

He wants this to end and he wants this to happen again and again and again, but not like _this_. He very well knows this is the only possibility, but desperate and pathetic as he is he grasps at this torture with everything he has, because it’s still better than having none of it— or so he tells himself. He doesn’t even know what’s best anymore, not for him nor for the men, not for this— _thing_ he and Francis have somehow created together and has escaped both their controls in no time without them noticing it, like Frankenstein’s Monster, making them the makers of their own deterioration.

When Francis finishes in his mouth, James chokes on warmth, viscous and bitter. It takes the air out of him.

He swallows it all down, coughing as soon as his mouth is once again empty. He knows there are tears on his cheeks, spit on his chin and his jaw, and sperm on his lips. He angrily brushes all of it away with his silky handkerchief, avoiding looking at Francis. He never even spares him a look anyway when he’s finished, back turned on him as yet another wall in between them.

James is all sweaty, the fine cotton of his shirt damp under his armpits, on his chest; his treacherous prick has leaked in his undergarments and it’s still stubbornly hard and burning hot, making every movement a torture.

He’s ashamed, physically uncomfortable and furious at both Francis and himself.

And he hasn’t been this warm in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- find it [on tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/643660585762947072/not-so-cocky-now-are-you-for-fitzier-please)


	15. “louder, i want them to hear you.” + fitzier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **princessprouvaire** asked for fitzier + _“louder, i want them to hear you_.” from[ this list](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/636206929657643008).
> 
> Also using this for my **Free space** in [my second Bingo card](https://i.ibb.co/m4cBNVp/The-Terror-Bingo-caravaggiosbrushes-2nd-copia.jpg)!  
>  **tags:** dub-con, James' POV, smut

James has never been so close to the edge of losing control.

The side of his face is pressed to the wooden wall of _Terror_ ’s Great Cabin, rubbing painfully against it with every motion. He distantly realises he’s going to have a red cheek later and no way to explain it.

He has already tried to push Francis back, but the Captain is pinning him to the wall with his entire body weight, twisting one of James’ arms painfully behind his back, in between them. It should make him feel trapped, but instead he feels anchored to something, as if he’d just found his Pole Star after a long time.

Francis changes the angle of his thrusts and he has to bite down a pitiful moan.

“Louder,” Francis snarls in his ear, shoving his prick into James, “I want them to hear you.”

“What do you care **–** ” He’s interrupted by Francis’ fingers gripping at his hip painfully, “Christ, slow down **–** ”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Francis pants, “I want everyone to know you’re not as perfect as you look all the damn time.” His breath is damp on James’ curls, “I want them to see how much the handsomest man in the Royal Navy loves to take it up the ass.”

James bites at his bottom lip to keep quiet, so hard it goes numb.

He wants to tell Francis to stop, wants to shove him against the wall, bend him over the table and make him feel what he’s feeling right now, pain and humiliation and a pleasure so dense he doesn’t even know how to grasp at it.

He keeps as silent as he can, breathing through his nose, lips tightly sealed.

“Open up.” Francis says, stroking his thumb on his lips. He gets no reaction. “I said open up, be a good boy, now.”

James’ hips jerk back against him, the shock of hearing those words in Francis’ voice so great it makes him lose control over his body for a moment: his lips part, a low moan catches in his throat.

“Ah, that’s what you like. Of course.” Francis says, mockingly, immediately pushing two fingers in his mouth. “You like getting told you’re the best of the best, mmh? Just like everyone always does with you.” He chuckles with no merry, “You need other people to tell you you’re good enough. I bet you’d love me telling you you’re good too, isn’t it?”

James shuts his eyes, his prick leaking hopelessly against the wall, twitching every time Francis says “ _good,_ ” “ _you’re good,_ ” making his shame evident.

What he would give to be sexless, right now.

What he would give to have his prick taken away from him, along with this horrible, irresistible lust that Francis somehow awakens in him, despite how awful they always treat each other.

He longs to be freed of all this, the shame of waking up hard and alone in his berth, so desperate and confused that everything it takes is just pushing his pillow in between his legs and hump it like a dog for a few moments, imagining it to be his Captain’ thigh, his face, his tongue. He can’t take the mocking light Francis always has in his eyes when he looks at him, as if he could read on his face everything he’s done the night before, how longingly he has whispered his Captain’s name as he pinched his own nipples, thrusting his straining prick in his fist, finishing with a mess on his chest.

He knows he has that same mocking light in his own eyes when he looks at Francis: it’s the last thing he’d want to show him, but he has no way to let himself be seen as he is when Francis bites at him with every single word.

His prick is harder than frozen ice, flushed red like a tropical flower, and James hates it, hates how Francis makes him feel, desperate for even the slightest word of comfort.

He sucks and bites down on his thick fingers, keeping his eyes closed to avoid looking at him. Francis shoves his prick deep into him, but he’s missing that point James wants him to reach, denying him the best pleasure he could get out of this.

“Answer me.” Francis breathes, “You want me to tell you you’re good, isn’t it?”

He wonders how no one on the ship can feel his shame.

“Your Captain asked you a question.” Francis says, with a push that makes his knees buckle.

The answer is ‘yes’, of course it’s ‘yes’. It’s been ‘yes’ since the first time they met, and James fears it will always be ‘yes’.

He shakes his head.

Francis laughs in his hair.

“Liar.”

He takes his prick in hand and James’ knees give out now. He would have collapsed on the floor if it weren’t from Francis keeping him pinned to the wall.

“Fucking liar, I know you like it, I can feel it here.” He tightens his grip on his prick and it’s so good, it feels like a blessing, at last, at last, James feels so full of him, mouth stuffed with his fingers, arse split open with his cock, his ragged breath in his ear.

When he finishes, he arches his neck to the side, avoiding looking at Francis’ triumphant face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- find it [on tumblr](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/643729265774493696/15-out-of-whichever-category-you-choose-for).


End file.
